Can there be a person that doesn’t like music?
Are you allowed to be called human if you don’t enjoy music?
If the sound of the beat doesn’t permeate every vein in your body
Like a rhythmic drug
Carrying away your conscious pains and desires,
Seizing control of your muscles,
Leaving you dizzy and manic
In euphonious ecstasy,
Are you really a person?
Could you call yourself alive if you don’t care for the outdoors?
If you don’t feel awakened by the first breeze of an opened door,
If the smell of damp grass and wet leaves
Doesn’t make you feel a promise has been fulfilled,
If you’ve looked at the purple-pink sky of dusk
And never felt blessed to be witness to a sight so frequent
And yet so rare,
Can you really say that you’re living?
How can you say you know if you don’t love?
How can anybody watch the curious flicker that ever burns behind your eyes,
Listen to your laugh, and then to your genuine laugh,
Understand the passion that drives you,
Know the heartache that built you,
Take you apart piece-by-piece,
Top to bottom,
Examining and studying and probing,
Noting every memory, preference, and facial expression,
And not want to be part of you?
How could a person know you like I do and not love you, too?